Fresh Start
by Hollywood Here We Come
Summary: Sonny somehow managed to get accepted to Juilliard for Dance, and she's thrilled- until she meets a boy who takes over her thoughts. Entry for LOLChanny819's AU contest. Sonny/Chad.


_So little to say but so much time_  
><em>Despite my empty mouth<em>  
><em>The words are in my mind<em>

Adele - First Love

* * *

><p>The air is cool and crisp today as I stroll the streets of New York. I've been in this city for less than a week and already I feel like I belong here. The crowded sidewalks, the jam-packed roads; it all feels as natural to me as breathing.<p>

Well. There's one thing I miss about Wisconsin: the fresh air. But I digress.

I love the fact that everywhere I turn, there's something to do. Stores to explore. People to watch. (_Okay, maybe that sounds a little creepy, but I swear I'm not a stalker. I'm just inspired by the random things I see every day.) _There's no excuse to be bored in this city, and best of all, _it doesn't smell like cheese._

I wonder how much time I'll be able to spend enjoying life here once school starts. See, somehow, for some strange reason that I'll never understand, _I'm starting at Juilliard_. The most prestige, intense training facility for dancers in the country. In two days. _Two. Days._

This thought distracts me from everything else going on. I, Sonny Munroe, am participating in the dance program at Juilliard. Never mind the leaves that are just starting to lose their vibrant green color and are lining the streets in bright, warm shades of yellow. I'm going to have some of the most talented, dedicated instructors in the world. A car horn blasts somewhere near by.

I find myself in a park—if it can be called a park. Really, it's small patch of grass, a few trees and some benches, all of which are occupied. I search for a seat and choose a bench where just one other person sits, a guy probably about my age. He has a packet of paper in his hands. It looks like a script, but I don't pay him much attention.

_I'm going to Juilliard._ This is a dream come true. I've been dancing since I was four. My mom always told me I was a natural; she's a dancer, too. She's the reason I'm here, in New York City. Her sister—my aunt—is on the board of admissions at the school. That reminds me, I need to find her and thank her properly for getting me in. Something to do on my first day, if I'm not too busy freaking out over the fact that _I'm going to Juilliard!_

"Music or dance?" The boy next to me asks suddenly, startling me from my thoughts. I turn to him and see that he has closed the script in his hands and is watching me curiously.

"I'm sorry?"

"I _said_—" he pauses, "music or dance?" He raises an eyebrow and turns his head slightly to the side.

"Dance," I reply cautiously. "Do you go to Juilliard?"

He seems insulted at the question. "Of course I do. Drama program, second year." His words hang in the air for a moment, like they contain some sort of magical, important meaning that I'm not picking up on. This boy clearly thinks a lot of himself.

"Well... that's cool," I say lamely, because I can't think of anything else to say. I suddenly regret not taking drama classes at my old high school, because maybe then I'd have something to say that would make me sound smart. Instead, I keep my mouth shut and wait for him to either get up and leave (_as I would have expected him to do)_ or say something else.

"You should get out while you can," he says, standing from the bench. "Dancing will get you nowhere in life."

I stand too, anger bubbling in the pit of my stomach. I've heard this before, from friends and even some family. But never has a complete stranger said it so blatantly. "Excuse me?" I search my mind for something to say, but again, I can't think of anything.

"You heard me," he stated. I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out whether he's being serious or not.

"So you think Drama is a more appropriate choice?" I inquire. He starts walking, and I follow him. Probably not something I should be doing in New York City—following a stranger. But now I'm curious.

"Honestly, anything is better than dance. Drama is the best choice, obviously, but Music is a fair option too. Maybe not singing, so much..." he trails off. He walks slowly, not in any hurry, and I easily keep up.

"What's wrong with singing?" I ask, offended. I've known this person for less than five minutes, and already he has insulted both of my passions.

"Are you serious?" he asked, shooting me a sideways glance. I notice his eyes for the first time, a shade of blue that reminds me of the sunny Wisconsin sky. I catch myself staring and look away quickly. He seems to notice too, and doesn't answer my question right away.

"I've been dancing since I was four," I tell him (_I don't exactly understand why I feel the need to explain myself here, but I do_). "Singing for even longer. There's nothing else I'm good at, and nothing else I _want _to be good at."

We stop at a red light, letting the cars pass on the street ahead of us. He shoves his hands in his pockets, glances at me briefly before looking away. For some strange reason, I feel my face go red.

"You _look_ like a dancer," he says quietly as the light turns green and we start crossing the road. "I mean, you have the figure for it. Not that I—uh, never mind," he stops himself, his own face flushing red. I suddenly feel the need to fold my arms across my chest, embarrassed.

"So what's so bad about dancing?" I ask once we're across the street and headed for a section of the city that I haven't been to before. "Or singing? Drama isn't much different. Just less interesting."

He stops walking and narrows his eyes at me. "Take that back," he demands. His face is surprisingly serious, so I hold my hands in surrender, a smile playing at my lips. I don't know why but I find his over-reaction kind of funny.

"Sensitive to criticism, aren't we?" I step back a little and give him some space. He glares at me just a moment longer then resumes his slow pace down the sidewalk. I follow a few steps behind, still waiting for him to answer my earlier question.

"Dancing is for parties. For girls to do at sleepovers, or something. Singing is even worse—everyone wants to be a singer, but not everyone _can_ be. It's pointless to live your life thinking you're going to out-sing everyone else." He pauses, letting his words sink in, and then continues: "_Acting_, on the other hand, offers endless possibilities. And it takes actual talent. Anyone can jump and spin, or belt out a few notes. But it takes talent to make yourself be someone different."

I consider this ridiculous argument for a moment. I can't believe he's being serious. "What's your name, anyway, mister Better-Than-Everyone?"

He smirks, like there's some sort of joke that I'm missing. "Chad. What's yours?"

He turns onto a small street, lined with little houses that look like they've been there for decades. I can imagine my grandparents living here in one of the little brick homes, sitting out on the porch swing in the light of the setting sun. I realize for the first time that it's getting late, and from this angle, the sun is blinding.

"Sonny," I inform him, squinting in the light. He looks at me again (_my arms are still folded over my chest, because, well, just in case...)_ "I'm a dancer, I'm a singer, and I'm proud of both. I'm not going to re-think my entire existence because of what one stranger thinks." He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that sounds like _'someday she'll learn'_. I ignore it.

"Well, Sonny, even though you dance and sing and kind of remind me of one of those Disney stars who tries to do everything, you seem like an okay kind of person. Which is weird because I don't usually like people in general, but you... well, I don't know, just... yeah." He trails off, and I feel my face turn red (_again? I've known him for all of ten minutes...)_

"You seem okay too, Chad," I manage, my chest suddenly feeling tight. I find myself staring at him again and look away.

"See you in school I guess," he says casually as he climbs towards the front of one of the little houses. He disappears through the door and I stand there for a while longer, trying to process what just happened.

This stranger—Chad—has taken over my thoughts. His windswept blonde hair, sky-blue eyes. The sideways smirk he flashed when he was amused. Ten minutes is all it took for him to get inside my head.

I have a feeling this won't be the last time I see him.

* * *

><p>Hey, readers! It'sbeen forever and a day since I've posted anything... final exams are coming up soon and the past few weeks have been <em>insane<em> at school. But I'm back! This story is very different for me- it's for LOLChanny819's AU contest. I don't know if it's any good, so let me know! Thanks! :)

_-Hollywood Here We Come_


End file.
